Page 46 of Beneath the Dirt

Of course, this would be my luck.

His accuracy sends a surge of annoyance down my spine, especially now that he’s flipped to the back of the book. He’s pointing his finger at the picture I told Beth to make sure wasnotincluded in my author bio.

“You got me.” I force a smile and a shrug. It’s meant to be playful, but if it’s coming off to him like it feels to me—stiff and irritated—then I’ve failed.

He flips to the front of the book, now pointing at the title page,Masks We Keep.“Can I get your signature? I fucking love your Ferryman series.”

“Thank you.” I say plainly, appreciating the support even though this couldn’t be at a worse time. “But I’m afraid I don’t have a pen with me.”

Disgust riddles his face unexpectedly. “What kind of author travels without a pen?”

The kind who would rather travel with a pocketknife than a pen, apparently.

I touch my pockets again, giving off the illusion that I’m double checking. I shrug, “Sorry.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” He places the book into his jacket pocket. “So, what can I do for you?” The shift in his demeanor is undeniable. No longer an eager reader and right back to what I expected when I saw him emerge from his post, a stoic guard.

“Like I said, I’m here to see Pastor Rainey,” I lie. I’m definitely not in the mood to see my stepdad. Never again, but since Harlan hasn’t spread his wings past this hellhole, I have no choice but to see the two of them to get my necklace back.

Once again, he eyes me up and down. Probably wondering if I’m here for an exorcism with the way I’m dressed. Not thatanyone would think twice about the thigh high Petrine cross socks I’m wearing over my all-black bodysuit and full body harness, given that it’s Halloween. Except this isn’t my costume. This is how I dress daily, whether or not I have to see good ol’ Pastor Rainey.

His gaze lingers on my harness and his eyes squint at the portion where I slid my knife in. Thankfully, the all-black ensemble and pocketknife make it difficult for him to see what’s what.

“Ummm,” is all he can manage, sounding nervous. He looks back to the security shed he emerged from. A poster with red writing and picture beneath it well within view.

Shit. I didn’t want it to come to this, but if I need to work my charm to get my way, so fucking be it.

I soften my tone, waltzing over to him with an exaggerated sway of my hips. But he takes a step back and then another, forcing me to morph from a seductive stride to a leaping stomp.

“Lady, you’re coming too close.” His hand nears his duty belt again.

“And you’re in my way,” I mutter, but he doesn’t hear me. The static on his radio piercing the air. A muffled voice sounds from the other side, but the connection is poor, making it impossible to decipher who is talking or what is being said.

His boots scuff against the gravel as he continues backing away from me. “I’m going to need you to get back in your car.” He retrieves the baton from his side. “No one is supposed to be here tonight.”

Figures, now Daddy decides to no longer hold Holy Harvest. Where was that consideration when I lived here?

Slamming his hand down, the steel of the baton extends, but all I can focus on is the tattoo on his wrist. A cross with a crushed snake beneath it. Just like I remember from that night at Heathen’s Cross on the patches. No wait, on the blotter sheet. My forehead scrunches in confusion. I can’t remember now. Everything about that night feels so fuzzy. I just know I’ve seenit before. Continuing to stare, I swear I can see the ink slither on his hand. My mind is clearly playing tricks on me.

Ignoring the weapon in his hand—knowing it’s out as a scare tactic, and that he’s too pussy to use it—I slide the cuff of his jacket up to get a better look at his ink. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the illusion. Sure enough, the tattooed snake stops moving but the voices start up again.

“Let him sail. Blood for blood. Eye for an…”

I groan in desperation for it to stop. The guard’s eyes watching me in understandable fear. He flinches from my touch, but I grip him tighter, wanting to look away but unable to.

“Get off me or I will…”

I squeeze tighter. “Oh, please. If you were going to use that, you would have already,” I interrupt him. “What made you get this?”

“I don’t know. I just liked it.” He pries himself from my grip with success.

“Sorry,” I try to compose myself, but it’s difficult. The last time I saw that symbol was at Heathen’s Cross. Suddenly, all the memories that I’m still trying to piece together from that night flood me. Each one is as confusing as it was that night.

Especially the blood. There was so much blood. Buckets of it and it didn’t end when we left. It followed us to the hospital, and every so often it still finds me when I close my eyes.

“Whatever.” He turns down the volume on his radio. A man’s voice is on the other side. A familiar voice that has captured my attention, making everything he’s muttering irrelevant to my attention. With a snap of a finger, he summons my attention back to him, but barely. “Listen, it was cool and fucking unexpected to see you of all people here at this shithole, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell you to get back in your car and head home. The boss doesn’t like anyone snooping around here. Especially on Halloween night.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course he doesn’t. God! Fucking forbid something threatens his fortress of lies.”

---